That's What Brothers Do
by Nightarcher210
Summary: One shot. A little ditty about Dean's thought after a major event changes him. Sam's gone, what will he do? Rated for mild, very mild cursing.


**A/N: **Hi all. I know I'm not done with my other story, but this one has been bugging me. I'll update the other one soon.

**Disclaimer: **The song used is by Anthony Smith, and we all know who the show belongs to- Me!.. Not. Sorry, couldn't resist. Really, it's a product of Warner Bros and all those other people. Yadda yadda. Now! On with the show…

Dean had to drive. He couldn't get away from this, this feeling. It was a deep, hollow pain, and he couldn't get away from it fast enough by running. So he had to drive. He could, in the back of his mind, hear a shouting voice, steadily rising in volume. Somewhere it registered that his father would most likely murder him and then hunt his ghost down when he got back, but that really wasn't a priority. He got into the Impala, his baby, and started her up. But then, even her comfortable purr of the engine couldn't help his empty heart. So he drove.

As the car sped down the highway (don't know where the _hell _I'm going… don't really care), he realized that there was something missing. Music. Deep, loud, all-consuming music. The kind of music that he always listened to, to help him forget. He put a hand back and felt for his box of cassettes, but they weren't there. He snorted when he realized that they were in his room back at the apartment; the apartment that his dad was still at, and Dean wasn't about to go back there. So he turned on the radio.

It was a fuzzy station, and he started flipping through the channels, stopping every now and then when he heard something promising. He was just about to turn of some weird hick lecturing about god (who preaches at midnight on a Tuesday?) when it switched to a song. Something stayed his hand. He wasn't sure what, it started out sounding like some sappy love song, but he listened, out of some morbid curiosity. Sure it was some country song, but, well, he couldn't think of a reason not to listen. So he did.

A few minutes later, a tired voice laced with forced cheerfulness and a slight twang said, "Well folks, that was Anthony Smith, with 'That's What Brothers Do'," the announcer paused and then continued with a soft, almost non-existent chuckle, "So cherish your boys, mom and dad, and cherish each other, boys."

Dean felt his heart leap into his throat (he wasn't talking to me, he wasn't talking to me) and his hands tightened on the steering wheel as he pressed the gas. Breathing hard, he switched off the radio and stared ahead, trying as hard as he could to get something, anything else stuck in his head. It didn't work. That man's voice just played over and wouldn't shut up (probably would talk over a power drill to the brain). He felt something wet drip onto his cheek, and looked up in confusion. But then he realized what had happened and pulled over in one swift, decisive movement.

Then they fell, salt-hot, from his eyes and he let a sob, painful and low, escape from his choked throat (haven't cried since… don't remember; when did I last cry?) and there was a soft patter on the roof. It was raining. Seemed right, for the occasion. He remembered his mother saying something about rain (the angels are crying; is she crying too?) and could feel the painful hollow deepen (Dad said something about crying too, it doesn't solve any problems, it's useless) and the sobs turned to a howl. It was the kind of sound that comes only when a person has lost the last thing left to lose. Sam was gone, and Dean wasn't sure he'd be able to find him again (why'd you have to leave me Sam?) and the rain fell harder.

An eternity later, he could feel the sobs subside. He'd cried himself dry (push the tears back for another twenty years) and his chest was tight from lack of air. The rain was still coming down, if anything harder than before. So he walked outside (cool tears, not like mine) there was still blood on his hands and sweat in his hair, but the rain began to wash it away, all the sweat and blood and tears (blood is the hardest thing to get out, why is it washing away so easy?). It was absolution, the rain, a cleansing of the body and soul. When it was over, he'd be an empty vessel, no pain in the hollow, just promise.

Dean stood in the rain until he was soaked through to the bone, and still longer. Cars honked at him as they passed (go away, leave me alone, can't you see I don't care?) but none stopped to help. The memories began to wash away, starting with the earliest (Mom's laughing, singing, burning, screaming in pain, Dad's screaming in fear, ordering, loading a gun, Sammy's smiling, frowning, screaming for help, running, leaving, I'm… hunting, shooting, screaming in anger, telling Dad, driving away, stop. Stop. STOP) and it did. He was empty, a vessel, and he felt something come over him then. The vessel was filled, with light and beauty and happiness. It would, over time, regain its sorrow, its pain, but for now, it was pure.

The rain clouds cleared. It was night, cold and beautiful, calm and empty, like the vessel that was Dean. The stars shone, but the moon, a waning crescent, outshone them, even in its small state. He'd had to tell his father what happened to Sam, had to see the fury, the fear on the old man's face. Dean felt that float away on the wind. He was wracked by a sudden shudder, his breath misted the air. He got back into the car, still dripping (gonna get the seats wet; who cares? I can clean later) and turned on the heater. He drove back to the apartment and snuck inside. His father wasn't there, so Dean changed his clothes, grabbed his cassette box and duffel, and went back out to the Impala. When John returned later that evening, he would find a note (Dad, sorry for before. I've got some business to take care of, but I'll be back in a few days. Don't worry, Dean) and would try calling his son, but there would be no answer. Even so, he would not go to look for his son and would greet him with open arms when he got (it's not a home, this old apartment) back.

Dean drove west, towards the setting of the sun, even as it rose behind him. He reached his destination a few days later as it rose again. The air was crisp and cold and beautiful (Sam chose a good place to rest) and looked around the campus of Stanford U. He walked a bit, stretching his legs (only stops were for food, bathroom, and catnaps; gotta love catnaps) and started jogging towards the main hall. He looked up the student directory and was standing below Sam's window twenty minutes later.

Sam woke up at about six. He felt good, relaxed, and wide awake. He moved to the window and looked down. Trudging in the opposite direction was a figure in a worn brown leather jacket. He was heading towards an unmistakable black car. Before he got in and drove away, however, he looked back towards the window. His hand rose in a half-salute, half-wave, then he turned back and got into the car. Sam started (go after him, you idiot, he's leaving) but by the time he was out the front door of the building, the roar of the diesel engine had faded into nothing. Dean was gone. Sam would go back to his dorm and start studying for his first big test (just a prelim quiz, really) and Dean would slip to the back of his mind. But he would stay there, ever-present, ever-watching, until he came back in person four years later to end Sam's life as he knew it.

Dean drove into the rising sun, feeling the rumble of the engine beneath him. He settled comfortably in his seat, but did not put a tape into the cassette player. There was another song playing through his head, the words memorized the first time he'd heard them (never happened before, never gonna happen again), because they'd been written for him…

He said hi my name is Timmy and I'm pushin' 5 years old  
I can count to this many  
Then I'll have to use my toes  
Sure am glad to meet ya  
Let me show ya stuff  
That only big boys know

Now nickels might be bigger  
But dimes are worth the most  
Santa's always in the mall  
But he lives at the North Pole  
Kid stick with me and you'll go far  
Cause I'll show you the ropes

Cause in all these years I've learned many things  
How to walk, how to talk, and make believe  
So follow me

Notebook paper makes a handy stealth fighter and for  
Fast getaways we'll take my radio flyer  
And there's Indians in the woods  
Just off the porch out back  
And if they attack  
I'll help you fight em   
With sticks for guns  
Me and you  
'Til we've won  
Cause that's what brothers do

Mama said that you're the reason  
Her belly got so big  
And I didn't believer her  
Until she let me feel ya kick  
And I don't know how it happened  
I'm just glad   
That I have someone to play with

Cause in all these years I've learned many things  
How to walk, How to talk, and make believe  
So follow me

Notebook paper makes a handy stealth fighter and for  
Fast getaways we'll take my radio flyer  
And there's Indians in the woods  
Just off the porch out back  
And if they attack  
I'll help you fight em  
With sticks for guns   
Me and you  
'Til we've won  
Cause that's what brothers do 

We'll play cops and robbers and secret agent man  
And save the world from hostile aliens  
Sticks for guns  
Me and you   
Until we've won  
Cause that's what brothers do  
That's what brothers do

He said hi my name is Timmy and I'm pushin' 5 years old


End file.
